The Great Hall was quieter than usual that rainy evening. Lightning flickered far beyond the enchanted ceiling, casting fleeting shadows on the long house tables. Professor Albus Dumbledore stood at the front of the hall, beside the staff table, his gaze unusually distant — reflective.

“Tonight,” he began, his voice both gentle and commanding, “I will tell you a story few have heard. Not because it was unimportant… but because the wizarding world has a habit of forgetting the ones who choose humility over fame.”

The hall shifted. Students exchanged glances. Hermione Granger, sitting beside Harry and Ron, leaned forward with her quill poised, sensing something valuable was about to be shared.

“Over a century ago, a young witch came to Hogwarts — at the age of fifteen, no less,” Dumbledore said, his eyes glinting with memory. “She had no known lineage, no famous name. But within her lived a force older than any of our traditions: the ability to see and command Ancient Magic.”

A collective gasp rose from several students. Even Draco Malfoy, who had been slouching in his seat, sat upright with a raised eyebrow.

“She was different,” Dumbledore continued. “Not because of power alone — but because of the choices she made. Two great threats rose in her time: Victor Rookwood, a Dark wizard who sought dominion over magic itself... and Ranrok, a goblin consumed by vengeance, who believed he could reshape the magical world through force.”

“They worked together?” asked Dean Thomas, eyes wide.

“Briefly,” Dumbledore said. “Until ambition devoured their fragile alliance. Ranrok uncovered something no goblin — or wizard — was ever meant to touch: a source of Ancient Magic deep beneath Hogwarts. He consumed it. It transformed him into a creature of terrible power.”

“What happened to her?” Luna Lovegood asked dreamily, from the Ravenclaw table.

“She faced him,” Dumbledore said simply. “Alone. Beneath the earth, where the ley lines pulse and the walls remember. She could have taken the power for herself. Few would’ve stopped her. But she didn’t. She chose to lock it away. To bear the burden quietly, so no one else would suffer.”

A long silence fell.

“Did she die?” asked a quiet voice — Neville Longbottom.

“No,” Dumbledore said, smiling faintly. “But she disappeared. Some say she went abroad, others that she lived quietly among Muggles. No portraits were commissioned. No mention in your textbooks. But we know… because some of us chose to remember.”

At that, Fred and George Weasley leaned toward each other.

“Bit unfair, isn’t it?” Fred whispered. “She saved the world and got nothing?” George added. “Not even a plaque?”

Seamus Finnigan stood up suddenly, surprising even himself.

“Professor — why isn’t there a statue of her in Hogwarts?”

Murmurs of agreement echoed through the hall. Hermione raised her hand before speaking out of turn anyway. “I think it’s disgraceful that someone who prevented magical catastrophe is lost to history. She deserves to be remembered.”

Even Slytherins were nodding — including Pansy Parkinson, though she tried to look indifferent about it.

Dumbledore held up a hand, his eyes twinkling now.

“Ah. And so the voices of gratitude stir, even a century later. Perhaps that is the truest monument of all.”

“But still…” Harry said, glancing around. “We could do something. Couldn’t we?”

Dumbledore chuckled softly.

“Perhaps it is time. Not for glory, but for gratitude. You are, after all, the next stewards of this world. And remembering those who sacrificed for it... is part of that duty.”

He turned slightly toward Professor McGonagall, who gave the tiniest of nods.

“Very well,” Dumbledore concluded. “If the student body wishes it... I see no reason why a statue should not be erected. In the courtyard where the stars meet the earth — where she once stood, alone, beneath the moonlight.”

Cheers erupted across the hall. The students didn’t even notice the storm outside had stopped.

And somewhere, in the unseen folds of time, a name long forgotten stirred once more — and smiled.